


caged

by lanyon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-10
Updated: 2008-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel and Ecthelion, in an effort to find Maeglin, find themselves trapped in a tunnel in Anghabar .</p>
            </blockquote>





	caged

**i. now**

“I think the canary is dead.”

“I am relatively sure that is asleep.”

There is a contemplative pause.

“I wonder what canaries dream about.”

“Are you delirious? Maybe our air _is_ running out. You are being even more peculiar than usual.”

“I don’t think that I’m peculiar.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. You think that you’re perfectly normal, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“No. If I were perfectly normal, I wouldn’t be wondering whether this is a good moment to tell you that I love you.”

(And then there is silence and it is more oppressive than the perfect pitch blackness of the mine.)

 

**ii. just before**

 

It is a freak accident that Glorfindel intends to have expunged from the records of Gondolin. The King’s nephew has vanished and search parties seemed like an excellent plan to the King, and the plan became an order and the order became a mission, and the mission has led to Glorfindel and Ecthelion being trapped in a blind-ending tunnel in Anghabar, following a cave-in of the roof.

“Do not take it personally but I would far rather be trapped here with one of the House of the Mole. I’ve heard they can see in the dark.”

“No, that’s Legolas, of the House of the Tree. Smart as a whip, that boy.”

“Yes, well, night vision aside, I suspect a Mole might be useful. He might know how to get out of here.”

“I apologise that I do not have the necessary excavation skills to extricate us from this predicament,” says Glorfindel, in a rather sharper tone than he would normally adopt when speaking with Ecthelion. “But I am quite certain that that fellow from the Heavenly Arch will make all due haste to the City and a rescue party will be formed.”

“Must you walk about so much?”

“I should scarcely call it walking when the ceiling is so low that I cannot even stand up straight and so narrow that I can take no more than three steps in any direction.” Glorfindel scowls at the darkness and folds his arms. “It is hot in here. Do you think it hot?”

“I daresay you would not feel quite so warm if you sat down –” Ecthelion longs to add, _and if you calmed down_ , but he bites his tongue.

There is a whisper of air, followed by a soft _flumph_ as Glorfindel removes his cloak. He sits down and holds his hand in front of his eyes. He thinks he can see a slight change in the dense shadows before him but then accepts that he is probably imagining it.

“I do not like the dark,” he announces.

“It does not bother me overly,” says Ecthelion lightly.

“But it really is terribly dark,” says Glorfindel, his throat a little bit tight. “How long do you think it will take for the rescue party to get here?”

“They will be here by morning, I am sure.”

Glorfindel exhales, a little relieved to hear such calming words spoken by such a soothing voice.

 

**iii. now**

 

It has been quiet for too long and Glorfindel cannot bear to be silent.

“I think I shall take off my armour,” he announces. “It really is rather hot.”

“That is an interesting course of action,” comments Ecthelion, his voice steady and smooth. “Given that you have just informed me that you love me.” Glorfindel is about to interrupt, to point out that all he said was that he was thinking about telling Ecthelion that he loved him (there was no actual declaration of love or intent but perhaps the removal of his armour might be considered a declaration of intent and his thoughts are about to get away from him again before Ecthelion continues). “Of course, you are the sort of Elf who chooses to tell another Elf that he loves him while trapped in a confined, dark space. Were you running out of topics of conversation, Glorfindel? Or did you think I desired to be jolted out of my relative comfort?”

Glorfindel cannot tell if Ecthelion is being serious or if he is joking because he cannot see his face and Eru knows that when Ecthelion chooses to sound neutral, there is not a stray inflection or breath in his voice, and Glorfindel so loves to hear Ecthelion’s impassioned speeches at council meetings, because he hardly ever raises his voice, and everyone must lean forward to understand his meaning.

“But I think you should take off your armour, certainly. I removed mine about an hour ago.”

“Did you?” asks Glorfindel, surprised. “I didn’t hear.”

“You do not always listen, do you?” Ecthelion’s words are meant kindly, Glorfindel is sure, and he does not know what to say in response. He simply reaches for the clasps at his side but he freezes, because instead of feeling the cool metal of the buckle, his hands close on warm fingers (and he is sure they are not his own fingers).

“How did you--?” Glorfindel asks in a rush. Ecthelion had been sitting on the opposite side of the tunnel, Glorfindel is sure of it, unless he has learned ventriloquism, and now that Glorfindel thinks about it, that would not be so surprising but he cannot follow the thread of his (always tenuous) logic because his armour is loosened at once side, and then the other, and his breastplate is removed and he is sure he should be breathing more freely now, but he is not. He is as passive as a marionette as Ecthelion’s nimble fingers unbuckle his gauntlets and then he understands. He understands that Ecthelion is doing this because he forgives Glorfindel for speaking out of turn, for making an awkward situation even more awkward. Glorfindel feels almost elated that Ecthelion is so good, so generous of heart, that he can hear such a confession and not pass judgment. He clenches and unclenches his fists, relishing the freedom of movement, but his hands soon fall limp at his sides because Ecthelion’s hands are on the insides of his thighs, removing the rest of his armour with the same surety.

“Your armour is a great deal heavier than mine,” says Ecthelion and Glorfindel is doing his best to listen and he thinks he hears something in those crisp tones that would be matter-of-fact if it was not so dark.

“That surprises me,” manages Glorfindel, although his breathing is too rapid, too shallow to allow him to speak. “Given how many diamonds you carry about on your person.” He allows himself a grin, because Ecthelion cannot see it. “They are terribly pretty.”

Ecthelion laughs (oh, he laughs and it is low and quiet and Glorfindel is still overjoyed).

“Oh, good,” murmurs Ecthelion and his voice (his breath) is much closer to Glorfindel’s ear than Glorfindel had anticipated. “‘Pretty’ was precisely the impression I was hoping to create.” Glorfindel is stunned again, he cannot move and it is like that moment of drunkenness when one’s limbs are heavy and sluggish and one is incapable of anything but the most basic thought processes. His leather jerkin is being unlaced and he knows that he is in no fit state to attempt such precise manoeuvres so it must be Ecthelion’s doing.

He means to ask what Ecthelion is doing but gets no further than forming Ecthelion’s name on dry lips because his jerkin is being lifted off over his head and Ecthelion’s hand is moving in a firm line up Glorfindel’s chest, over his shirt, damp with sweat and sticking to his skin, and then Ecthelion’s hand is clasping the side of Glorfindel’s neck. Glorfindel can feel each slender finger; can almost imagine the slow, steady pulse in each fingertip and then Ecthelion’s voice (his breath, his lips) are at the angle of Glorfindel’s jaw.

“I am surprised you didn’t think to remove your armour sooner,” says Ecthelion softly. “You are like a caged animal at the best of times, even within your skin.” (And his fingers slip and slide over Glorfindel’s throat.) “And here you were, trapped underground, and you did not even think to free yourself sooner.”

“It – it didn’t occur to me,” admits Glorfindel and his voice is quiet and hoarse.

Ecthelion takes a breath and Glorfindel thinks he is trying to compose himself (and he will succeed because he is Ecthelion). “I have watched you before,” he says, so softly that Glorfindel has to lean closer to understand his meaning. “You were sparring with Elemmakil last week, on the practice grounds. Only a madman would fight Elemmakil without wearing armour.” His breath is warm on Glorfindel’s cheek. “Of course, only a madman would sally forth into a mine with only a canary for company. You are lucky I followed you.”

“Lucky – yes,” breathes Glorfindel. He swallows, with some difficulty. He turns his head slightly then, towards Ecthelion, and Ecthelion’s hand moves around to the back of Glorfindel’s head, and he feels fingers tangled in his hair, and he is coaxed closer because he is not yet close enough. They kiss and it begins gently, almost tentatively, as Glorfindel tastes Ecthelion’s lips and his tongue (the sweetest in Gondolin, it has been said) and then something breaks inside Glorfindel, a little hairline fracture becomes a chasm, and he throws himself in, fiercely and longingly, and Ecthelion is more than equal to the challenge. He does not know how long passes but the quietest moans are escaping Ecthelion’s throat and Glorfindel greedily swallows them all and wants more. He pulls back a little and finds that his hand is on Ecthelion’s chest, gathering up the fabric of his shirt, and Ecthelion’s hands are on his back, under his shirt, and he is can only wonder how Ecthelion can be so strong.

“I told you I loved you,” Glorfindel suddenly says and the surprise in his voice makes Ecthelion laugh and it is a giddy, boyish laugh.

“Yes, I had noticed,” he replies. “I should not have kissed you otherwise.”

“I thought I kissed you.”

“Not every great idea is yours, my Lord, although I will allow that forming search parties to find the Prince was a stroke of genius on your part.”

Glorfindel wishes to retort that Ecthelion is too kind but Ecthelion’s hands begin to move again and Glorfindel thinks, rather frivolously, that this must be what it feels like to be one of Ecthelion’s musical instruments, and he really should not be surprised that Ecthelion knows just where to touch to produce gasps and moans and pleas that would be embarrassing in their wantonness except that Ecthelion is moaning too. Glorfindel, in an attempt to wrest back some control of the situation, manages to coax Ecthelion onto his lap and he wraps his arms around him and they gasp and laugh into each other’s mouths and Glorfindel suddenly wishes he could see Ecthelion’s expression and he reaches up to frame his face, his hands feeling big and clumsy. He gasps when he feels teeth closing on his thumb and he can feel Ecthelion’s laughter as he surges up to kiss him. Ecthelion’s hands rest on his shoulders briefly before sliding down the centre of his chest. Glorfindel barely knows what to think (he cannot think) when Ecthelion’s fingers unlace his trousers and all he can do is reciprocate. His moans become higher-pitched while Ecthelion’s voice drops even lower and Glorfindel wants to see, he so desperately wants to see, when Ecthelion’s hand closes around him (and all he can do is reciprocate).

It is only after that Glorfindel wonders aloud that they did not dislodge any more of the caved-in ceiling and Ecthelion smiles against Glorfindel’s shoulder

“I think we frightened off the canary,” he comments. “I cannot hear it breathing.”

“I do hope it isn’t dead,” says Glorfindel, “because I think we expended more air than is strictly wise.” His hand idly strokes Ecthelion’s hair. “We might be doomed, my Lord.”

“I think that you and I have always been doomed,” murmurs Ecthelion. “Since –” He falls silent, suddenly. “I can hear someone coming.”

Glorfindel strains to hear and, sure enough, there are footsteps and voices.

“We’ll have you out in no time, my Lords,” booms Rôg. “You might want to stand back.”

“We had best put our armour back on,” says Ecthelion and he is out of Glorfindel’s arms before Glorfindel has a chance to mourn the impending loss. “If the Hammer of Wrath is at the other side, we should probably take every precaution.”

“What did you do to this canary?” asks another voice.

“What did we do to it, Galdor?” asks Glorfindel as he quickly re-fastens his gauntlets. “I have no idea. Jittery little thing.”

“It is terrified,” says Galdor flatly.

“Maybe it’s afraid of the dark,” offers Ecthelion in convincingly placid tones, which is all the more impressive because Glorfindel’s lips are on his neck.

(Of course, by the time Rôg and Galdor have made their way in, Glorfindel and Ecthelion are leaning against opposite sides of the tunnel wall, with scarcely a hair out of place.)

 

**iv. shortly after**

“I am, of course, delighted that neither of you were injured,” says Turgon, striding around the council table. There is room enough for twelve lords but Glorfindel and Ecthelion are the only two in attendance today. “Although you both look a little worse for the wear. Understandable, I suppose.”

Glorfindel does not look at Ecthelion and Ecthelion does not look at Glorfindel and the effort is almost too great to bear. Fortunately, the King continues to speak, evidently not noticing the matching red flush in the cheeks of his two captains.

“The simple fact remains, however, that my nephew is still missing and for as long as he is missing, we must be even more vigilant. I shall double the guards at the Gates and we shall set sentries at the entrance to Anghabar.”

“Wise, Highness, certainly,” says Ecthelion (exquisitely even-toned). “I shall send notice the Heads of the Houses.”

“What of the House of the Mole?” asks Glorfindel suddenly. “Who is to take over their stewardship while their Lord is missing?”

“Yes, I have considered that,” says Turgon. “As the two most senior Lords in Gondolin, I propose that one of you two take charge. I am aware that your Houses are the largest, but I would rather give you the responsibility.”

“I will do it,” offers Glorfindel, immediately. “Ecthelion will have to deal with the increased numbers of guards at the Gates. It seems only fair that I should take on this task.” He sits back in his seat, quite comfortably. “In any case, if Penlod can run two Houses, I don’t see why I cannot.”

Ecthelion looks at Glorfindel a little uncertainly, as does Turgon, but neither of them chooses to comment on the fact that Lord Penlod is renowned for his multi-tasking skills, while Glorfindel most avowedly is not.

“Also, I’d quite like to learn more about the mines.”

Turgon laughs. “Only you, Glorfindel, could possibly wish to spend more time in a place in which you were trapped.”

“Perhaps he simply wishes to be better-equipped, should it happen again.”

Glorfindel looks up at the sound of Ecthelion’s voice and looks directly at him as he replies. “Well, I should like to be better able to take the initiative, of course. Should it happen again.”

Turgon looks between the two Elves, a little uncertain as to what is transpiring in front of him. He waves a hand. “Dismissed. You may discuss the details at your own leisure.”

“At our own leisure, my Lord,” says Ecthelion, rising to his feet.

“The details, yes. Understood, my Lord,” chimes in Glorfindel and he reaches the door before Ecthelion.

(And all of Gondolin is most impressed at the two captains’ devotion to detail, and to the welfare of the House of the Mole, when they emerge a full twenty-four hours later, having reached a number of agreements on how best to proceed.)


End file.
